


phantom bruises

by lostnfound14



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Attempted Rape/Non-Con, BAMF Peter Parker, Established Relationship, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Michelle Jones Needs a Hug, Soft Peter Parker, They deserve all the love, i hate to hurt these kids
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-15
Updated: 2020-01-19
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:21:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22272496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lostnfound14/pseuds/lostnfound14
Summary: Peter turns on the sink and splashes a little bit of water onto his face and a little bit in his hair to freshen up. It’s when he turns to dry his hands on the towel that’s on the rack behind him thatSomething tells him to FIND MJ.The hairs on the back of his neck stand up, the tiniest of breezes blow against them from the barely-open window and his hearing tunes in to somewhere unseen in the house.“What’re you doing…?”He hears MJ slur, clear as day as if she were in the room with him. She sounds confused. A hint of fear in her voice.-Or, Peter finds MJ in the nick of time before what could have been a scarring experience, but that doesn't mean she isn't hurting. Peter has little idea of how to help her and MJ struggles to communicate. They'll figure something out...Right?
Relationships: Michelle Jones/Peter Parker
Comments: 12
Kudos: 82





	1. lightheaded but my thoughts weigh a ton

**Author's Note:**

> well guys, here's a story with some more sensitive subject material. i understand that the warning will definitely push some people away from this fic so if you're reading these notes, welcome, and i appreciate you! this will be a multi-chapter fic and um, update schedule? never heard of her. i'll figure it out as i go along, probably like how i wrote "hard times create strong men." i won't have as much time as i did when i was writing that story, though, so updates will probably be more sporadic. without further ado, here's the first chapter!

“I’m just gonna go use the bathroom, okay, MJ?” Peter whispers into the taller girl’s ear. When he pulls away, she nods a couple of times, a bit of a dreamy look on her face. She’s tipsy. Peter wishes he were the same, but alas. With a metabolism fast enough to starve a lesser man, alcohol is basically glorified fruit juice to him. 

_"Oookay_ , Peter,” she says, poking a finger into his chest. Peter smiles despite himself, covering her hand with his own over his heart. “I’ll go… mingle.”

She says it like they’re at a charity gala and she’s a popular guest when really, the drinks don’t get fancier than fifteen-dollar vodka and people are passed out in the backyard.

Reluctantly, Peter lets go of her hand and turns to find the bathroom. It’s not too hard to find – at the end of the hall. With his hand on the knob, he silently prays that he doesn’t walk in on a wasted couple making out against the sink.

Peter's prayer is answered. The bathroom is empty, and when he closes the door the sounds behind it become more muted, more manageable for his hyperactive senses. He closes his eyes and takes in a deep breath, feeling more at peace than he has for the entire evening. Maybe he and MJ should get going soon. She’d been bordering on the line between tipsy and flat-out _d_ _runk_ for some time now and Peter’s getting tired and a bit overwhelmed. 

He turns on the sink and splashes a little bit of water onto his face and a little bit in his hair to freshen up. It’s when he turns to dry his hands on the towel that’s on the rack behind him that 

_Something tells him to FIND MJ._

The hairs on the back of his neck stand up, the _tiniest_ of breezes blow against them from the barely-open window and his hearing tunes in to somewhere unseen in the house.

_“What’re you doing…?”_ He hears MJ slur, clear as day as if she were in the room with him. She sounds confused. A hint of fear in her voice.

Peter bursts out of the bathroom, not caring if he can hear the hinges of the door crack a little bit from the force he didn’t mean to use. He throws open the first door on the left of the hallway. The room is empty. He turns to his right and tries that door. Some couple is making out against the wall and they make indistinct noises of protest at being interrupted, but Peter’s brow is furrowed as he tries to concentrate his hearing, and he _doesn’t care._

Peter turns his head to look further down the hall. There’s only one more door left, and his senses tell him that that’s the one. So he stalks towards it, shoves it open, hearing the lock break, and:

Standing in front of the bed is a faceless boy, who looks to be in the process of unbuckling his belt, and in front of him, splayed out on the bed, her skirt pulled up past her panties, is MJ.

Peter kind of fucking loses it. The boy turns to him and starts to ask incredulously, “Who the fuck are–” but Peter backhands him wildly, knocking him instantly unconscious to the floor. His knuckles don’t even burn.

He quickly walks to MJ and leans over her. Her eyes look glazed over and glistening. Is she even breathing?

“MJ,” his voice trembles, “it’s me.”

His words don’t register.

“MJ,” he tries, a little louder. This jerks her out of her trance. Her eyes meet his, and a single tear rolls down her temple as she angles her head to look at him properly. There's a very noticeable bruise on her neck. Peter tries to block it out from his vision but his eyes are drawn to it no matter where he looks. Fuck.

“He tried to…” she falters, and another tear falls. 

Peter feels his face start to turn red and his fists ache from how hard he’s been clenching them. “Let’s get out of here, okay?” He asks, but he isn’t really asking. He slips a hand beneath MJ’s back and lifts her up to a sitting position. She sways but catches herself on the bed frame, and when he glances back up to her face, he sees that she is still silently crying. _Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck_

His eyes fall to her feet. They’re bare. “Where are your shoes?” he asks, trying to settle the shakiness of his voice. 

“I don’t know,” she whispers. She sounds broken. Like she’s speaking over shards of glass stuck in her throat.

Peter’s eyes sweep the room and he finds her flats discarded lazily on the floor on opposite sides of the room. He returns to MJ and considers slipping them on for her, but really, he just wants to _g_ _et the hell out of there._

So he wraps his hand around her waist and lifts her up. Instantly, she leans against him, burying her face into the crook of his neck and shoulder. He looks down and he realizes that her skirt is still up. Quickly, he pulls it down her legs to cover her, give her _some_ sense of decency as they leave this hellish place. The music is still blasting, but Peter is tuning everything out. He can’t afford to lose focus.

He takes her to the door and pulls it open as quickly as possible. He begins to maneuver them around the other teenagers, who are in varying states of incapacitation, not bothering to apologize if he pushes anyone out of the way.

They eventually make their way to the front door of the house. Some asshole is leaning on it, his eyes hooded and posture slack. Peter grabs him roughly by the shoulder and pushes him off, barreling through the door into the fresh night air.

Finally, he feels like he can breathe. He closes his eyes and takes a moment to settle his racing heart and shaking hands.

He turns to MJ, who hasn’t said anything for a little while. She’s still conscious – he can feel her breath, languid and hot, against his collarbone. 

“Let’s get you home, MJ,” Peter says. “Can I call your–”

_“No,”_ MJ interrupts, sounding mortified. “Stay with me.” 

She lifts her head to look at him, and although she still looks so terribly out of it, tear tracks visible in the moonlight, Peter understands. “Okay,” he whispers. “Okay.” He takes a moment to think. “I’m going to call Mr. Stark, okay?”

She nods a small, noncommittal thing. Peter rapidly fishes his phone out of his pocket, using the speed dial (for emergencies only). He lifts the phone up to his ear as it starts to ring.

“Comeoncomeoncomeoncomeon,” he whispers. 

The front door of the house whips open to reveal the drunk guy Peter had forcibly moved just a minute ago. He doesn’t look happy. Peter sighs tiredly. He just wants to take MJ home, for God’s sake, why can’t he–

“What the hell is your problem, asshole?” The boy yells. Peter slowly extricates himself from MJ’s grip, and she makes no protest.

Peter hears a click on the phone. _“What’s up, Underoos?”_

He can’t help but sigh in relief. “Mr. Stark, I need your help.”

“You think you can just push people around like that? You think that’s cool?” Peter feels a headache coming on. Multitasking is difficult, even if his reaction time is ten times faster than the regular human.

Tony’s voice takes on a note of concern. _“Are you hurt? I can send a suit over in a jiff.”_

“No, it’s not that. It’s easier than that,” Peter assures, preparing himself for the drunk asshole in front of him to make a move. Sure enough, he stumbles toward him, swinging a fist – wild, uncoordinated.

Peter ducks it as Tony says, _“Hit me.”_

“Can you send one of your cars to me? MJ had a bit too much to drink and I don’t think that’s gonna mix well with public transportation.”

Peter shoves the drunk kid away, who had stumbled with the momentum he created with his haymaker. He falls rather ungracefully on his ass and sits on the walkway, dazed.

_“You got it, kiddo. ETA five minutes.”_

“Thank you so much, Mr. Stark,” Peter says, letting out a breath. “Thank you.”

_“Anytime, kiddo. And for the love of God, call me Tony.”_

Peter can’t help but smile a little as he says, “Bye, _Tony,”_ and hangs up the phone. 

Just like that, he remembers that MJ is there, and she’s leaning on one foot, looking as drunk as ever. Peter quickly takes one stride to stand in front of her, and slowly, uncertainly, she lifts her head to meet his eye. He tries to muster some sort of comforting words, like May would be able to do in a situation like this. “I just talked to Tony,” he explains, and he puts a hand on MJ’s shoulder to steady her. “He’s sending one of his cars over. It’ll be here in five minutes, okay?”

“Okay,” she whispers. Peter feels a crack in his heart beginning to form. A few thoughts enter his mind, like _what if I had found her too late_ or _what’s going through her head right now_ or

He shakes his head loose from those thoughts because they aren’t doing anyone any good, especially the girl in front of him, who has just started to shiver slightly in the breeze of the summer night.

“You’re cold,” he whispers, and she nods. “Here, just…” he unzips his hoodie quickly, shrugs it off himself, and offers it to her. She looks down at it with eyes unseeing, doing nothing to take it from him.

Peter’s breath stops dead in his throat, and he moves quickly to pull his hoodie around her. He doesn’t want her to shiver anymore.

“Let’s go to the sidewalk, okay?” Peter asks, maneuvering his arm around her shoulder. He walks them up to the edge of the yard. Each step feels like a chore with MJ in tow.

When they finally stand on the sidewalk, Peter glances over to her. Her eyes are glued to the ground. He opens his mouth to ask something but thinks better of it. Now is not the time, he reasons. His first priority is to get MJ out of there. He’s going to take her to his and May’s place. God, he hopes May doesn’t mind. She’s on a shift at the hospital right now and she’s going to be exhausted when she comes back in the morning. 

Neither he nor MJ says anything for the rest of the five minutes, standing silently on the curb. Thousands of thoughts run through Peter’s head at the speed of light. He can’t focus on anything for more than a few seconds. 

The car eventually rolls up, a self-driving Audi that Peter has only used one other time: When he and MJ got lost in Manhattan on a date and needed to get home because the sun was starting to fall behind the towering buildings of the garment district. That was a good day. Peter wishes he could return to that day with her, before any of… _this_ ever happened.

Peter leans forward to pull open the door to the backseat and gently pushes MJ towards it. She sidles into the car and he follows suit. The plush of the car seats is something Peter wants to sink into and never emerge from.

_“Please state your destination,”_ FRIDAY’s voice asks from the built-in speakers. 

“May Parker’s residence,” he responds clearly, and promptly the car begins to move. He doesn’t bother with the seatbelt. Tony’s cars are impressively capable.

He and MJ sit in silence for a few minutes. Peter wants so badly to say _something,_ but he knows it’s the wrong time. He tries to be okay with the quiet.

He feels a hand land on top of his own. When he looks to his left, he sees MJ staring blankly ahead, but her expression is slightly less troubled. Peter smiles reassuringly, flips his hand palm-up to grasp her hand, and squeezes it gently.

The car eventually pulls up in front of Peter’s apartment building. MJ extricates her hand from Peter’s grip, and he looks at her to see if maybe he can pick up on her thoughts right now. She gets out on the left side of the car. Peter exits through the right. With the help of his enhanced vision, he reads her face –

It’s blank. Usually equipped with an inquisitive frown or teasing smirk, she now wears no expression, and it… _scares_ him. 

The entire walk up to his apartment is silent. At this point on a normal night, they’re bantering about how MJ is wheezing by the third story but Peter is practically bounding up the stairs without a drop of sweat on his brow.

In place of an actual playful conversation, he creates one in his mind. It occupies him until he pushes open the door to the hallway on his floor and he holds it open for MJ, who had been trailing almost an entire flight behind him. He feels like he’s dragging her around and he hates it but the thought that consoles him is that he’s keeping her _safe._

When MJ walks around him through the doorway, her gaze doesn’t lift to meet his and for a moment, he has to stand still and blink away a burning sensation behind his eyes. 

“Peter,” MJ’s soft voice calls from the end of the hallway. And thus, his bubble is broken by the very subject of his thoughts. 

He wordlessly walks up to the door and unlocks it. _Finally,_ they’re inside, and a knot of tension dissipates between his shoulders. He rubs against the spot momentarily before turning back to MJ. “We should just get ready for bed,” he says, trying not to sound like he’s rushing her. Like he’s not being… forceful.

“Okay,” she says. He starts walking to his room to get clothes for bed, and the light, uncertain footfalls behind him tell him that MJ is following. When he enters his room, he takes out pajamas for himself and MJ, tossing them onto the bottom bunk. 

“I’ll let you change,” he says. “And I can take the couch for tonight, too.”

“Oh,” she breathes, “Peter, you don’t have to–”

“It’s okay,” and he feels bad for cutting her off when that’s the most she’s spoken at all since they left the house party, but – “Just for tonight.” He wants her to feel safe, and also needs space to think/drown in confusion and despair that he couldn’t have found MJ sooner.

She retaliates no further and Peter turns on his heel, leaving her to change into the sleep clothes he offered. He pauses to close the door behind him and the instant it clicks closed, he leans against it, feeling as if he weighs a thousand pounds. Or maybe the guilt is what’s weighing him down.

He stays like that for a moment before he remembers that he needs to go to bed. So begins a short period of running on autopilot – changing into his pajamas in the living room, brushing his teeth, and setting up a bed on the couch. 

When he lies down, every fiber of the couch’s cushions feels like they burn against his skin. So he sits up and leans forward, resting his head in his palms, contemplating the darkness and silence that feels too loud to be normal. He can usually pick up the sound of cars from blocks away. But tonight his super-brain is focused on intangible, heartbreaking things. 

Alone with his thoughts, Peter is now granted the opportunity to actively beat himself up with the what-ifs he had promised himself he would avoid.

His brain conjures up an image where he finds her about to be led into an empty bedroom by someone who doesn’t look familiar, and he stops them in their tracks, and they go home, and Peter doesn’t have to deal with crushing guilt.

Or maybe he beats the shit out of the kid as MJ watches, unmoving, from the bed. Bloodstains on the fluffy white carpet. A feeling of sick catharsis as the boy begs for mercy. Peter doesn’t give it to him.

Or

Or

_Or._

It all means nothing. Peter failed MJ. He wasn’t fast enough. She probably hates him. She wants to break up with him. Whenever she looks at him she sees a person who failed her.

His head starts to ache with the speed of his thoughts and the grating pain they bring him. He can’t take an Aspirin; it won’t work, his system will eat through it like it’s nothing.

_Fucking useless, you are, Parker, aren’t you._

Peter doesn’t know how long he spends sitting awake but soon his eyes start to droop and he surrenders to sleep. It’s fitful and his nightmares are less than welcome. But when he wakes up the moon is gone and the sun beats down on him, his guilt sticking to him like his sweaty t-shirt, and –

MJ is breathing evenly, eyes shut in sleep, cradled between his arms.


	2. for a second there i almost forgot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the morning after.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you to everyone who left kudos and comments on the first chapter. i hope this next one is up to par with that one. enjoy! leave more kudos and comments if you wish!

When MJ awakes, it is from a nightmare. Already it begins to fade from her mind, but the effects are lasting: a quickened heartbeat and a hand that needs to squeeze the shit out of something. She gropes around lazily until she finds something that rests atop her hip and she takes out all of her frustration on it. 

It’s when she hears a soft grunt of pain that she realizes it belongs to a human. To be more specific, it is a human hand. 

“Peter?” She mumbles groggily.

“Morning, MJ,” Peter says, sounding just as tired as she does. The thought comforts her slightly. 

A sudden stab of pain in the back of her head makes her groan. _“Ow,”_ she whispers. 

In an instant, his voice adopts a tone of concern as he squeezes her hip, “Are you okay?” MJ ponders this. She’s hungover, still tired after sleeping like a log, and last night…

No, MJ is definitely not okay. But she doesn’t want to bother Peter. “Yeah, just… headache,” she explains, rather eloquently, she might add. 

“Let me get you some Advil,” he says, and she feels the couch cushions shift with his weight as he lifts himself up and flops over the edge. MJ rolls her eyes at his antics but stops when another ache lances through her brain, making her inhale sharply. God, she can’t even be MJ with this damn headache. 

She hears Peter shuffling around in the kitchen, probably looking for the medicine. Momentarily, she thinks, how does someone not know where the pills are in their own damn apartment? But then she realizes how rude she sounds (even though nobody is around to hear it but herself). So she takes a deep breath and tries not to focus on the hammering inside of her head. She fails.

She hears a small _clank_ of a glass against the coffee table in front of her, and she opens her eyes to see Peter standing over her with a hopeful smile on his face. His hair sticks out in all of the directions and there are barely-visible bags under his eyes, but Michelle still thinks he looks beautiful. 

“Thanks,” she whispers, because if she speaks any louder she just knows her head is going to hurt more. Slowly, she lifts herself to a seated position, taking the two pills and the glass off the table. She probably looks like Smeagol right now, cradling the Advil like her precious. 

Then she stuffs the pills into her mouth and tips her head back to gulp down every last drop of water in the glass. She can feel Peter’s eyes on her, so when she finishes it and plops the glass down dramatically on the table, she tries for her best challenging glare up at him and winks. 

“Ow.” Not a good idea, the headache tells MJ. Peter chuckles. Then his mirth is gone and he’s looking at her like _that_ again. She hates it.

“Please don’t look at me like that,” she hears herself whisper, hating how small and vulnerable she sounds. Quickly, he sits down next to her on the couch and leans in. Too close. She inches away. 

“Like what?” He asks, just as quiet as she, but with a smidge of hurt in his voice. 

“Like…” MJ tries to think of a way to describe the way she feels when Peter looks at her with those puppy dog eyes. She throws her shoulders up in a helpless shrug. “I don’t know.”

“MJ,” Peter says, and he reaches for her hand that landed on her knee. She lets him take it and she watches him trail her veins with his hands. She can’t find it within herself to look at him because she _knows_ he’s still got that exact look on his face right now.

He’s waiting for her to speak. She doesn’t.

“MJ,” he says again. “I just… do you want to talk about it?”

She laughs bitterly, trying her best to sound unbothered, but she just sounds nervous. “No. Jesus, Peter.”

“Okay,” he agrees, and she blinks in surprise. “We don’t have to do that right now. And it doesn’t even have to be us. It could be a counselor–”

“I don’t want to talk to anyone about it,” she snaps, and then her eyes water, and just like that she’s crying. God, since when was she so _fucking_ sensitive? She feels pathetic. That just makes her cry harder.

This time, she doesn’t resist when Peter pulls her into him, resting her head on his shoulder as her chest heaves with sobs. He smells like remnants of the aftershave he wore last night. 

He silently holds her as she cries. At least he doesn’t try to tell her some bullshit like “It’s okay.” Nah, man. She’s pretty fuckin’ far from okay.

The events from last night come rushing through her mind because she’s powerless to stop them–

_MJ leans against the wall, her head feeling light and a perpetual smile on her face as she looks up at the ceiling. What an interesting ceiling. Very nice texture, hmm, yes. TLC would love that ceiling._

_God, she feels drunk. When Peter comes back from the bathroom she should tell him that she wants to leave._

_“What’re you doing here alone?” A voice interrupts MJ’s dreamy state. Her eyes fall from the ceiling to look at the culprit. He looks like his name is Kyle. A typical white boy without any distinguishing features._

_“‘M not alone,” she mumbles, but he must not have heard her over the music that feels like it’s shaking the foundations of the house they’re in because he leans in and asks:_

_“What do you say we find an empty room, huh?”_

_“Um, no,” MJ says, louder and clearer this time. “I’m here with my boyfriend,” she feels the need to explain. A momentary frown plagues the boy’s face but it’s replaced with the same douchey smile seconds later._

_“Where’s your ‘boyfriend,’ then?” he asks._

_“He’s in the bathroom,” MJ makes the mistake of saying, and he pounces, reaching for her wrist. Her reflexes are shot, so she’s unable to resist as he pulls her off of the wall and leads her toward the hallway. No._

_“Stop,” she tries to protest, but either he doesn’t hear her or he’s ignoring her. By the way he’s moving deftly around the other partygoers, MJ knows he’s completely sober. She tries pulling in the opposite direction but his grip is iron. She can’t do anything to stop him._

_He finds a door in the hallway and pushes it open, pulling her in behind him. He locks the door. MJ tries once again to separate herself from his hand. Useless._

_He turns and kisses her, heavy and bruising. MJ’s lips don’t move in tandem with his, so he takes his free hand to her jaw and forces her mouth open, shoving his tongue down her throat. Her mouth feels numb._

_“You’re beautiful,” he says, breathing hard when he pulls away. The words make her feel disgusting. Where is Peter?_

_His hands wrap themselves like claws around her hips and he begins to kiss her again, pushing her backward until her knees collapse against what she thinks is a bed._

_“Stop,” she says breathlessly when he pulls away again._

_“You’re irresistible,” he rebuts. He pushes her down so that she lies with her arms splayed out over the bed. Quickly his hands wrap tightly around her wrists. Allowing no room for escape, for resistance. He forces his lips upon hers, and she still refuses to give him any sort of leeway. It’s taking all of her willpower in her drunk state. His hands pull at the skirt of her dress and lift it up to her waist. It feels as if his fingers leave a trail of disgusting, visible slime. He is hands, hands, hands. Nothing more, nothing less._

_“Feisty one, aren’t you?” He sounds pleased. He’s not supposed to sound pleased. He speaks like they’re playing a game and she’s toying with him. She doesn’t want any twisted fun. She wants Peter. She wants to go home._

_He finally lets go of her, towering above her as he lifts himself to his knees. His hands go to his belt._

_“What’re you doing?” She knows she sounds wrecked, and she also knows exactly what he’s doing. She just doesn’t want to believe it._

_He works his belt out of the buckle slowly, as if he’s teasing her. She’s not interested._

_Just as his fingers work the leather out of the metal, she hears the door to the bedroom crack open. From her peripheral, it looks as if it almost flies off the hinges._

_When the boy speaks, he sounds scared. If MJ wasn’t in shock she would grin. “Who the fuck are–”_

_His question is interrupted by the sound of a slap, and then the crumpling of a body to the floor._

_A face fills her field of vision soon after. A different one. A familiar one. Peter._

_Her heart beats strongly for a few seconds. It’s over. But she doesn’t quite feel safe._

_“MJ,” he says, and his words breathe life into her._

“MJ?”

She’s not in the bedroom anymore. She’s crying in Peter’s arms. The boy is gone. Who knows where he is now.

MJ sniffles. “Yeah?” She asks, wiping aggressively at her face, drowning her fingers in salty tears. 

“Never mind,” Peter says. The rumbling of his chest as he speaks soothes her, if only slightly. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

MJ laughs lightly despite herself. “No, that was probably for the best. I was thinking about…”

She can’t finish the sentence, but Peter doesn’t mind. “Yeah,” he says simply. “Yeah.” 

MJ takes a shaky, snotty breath before speaking again. “I’m sorry for snapping at you,” she says, her voice vibrating with nerves. She’s not used to apologizing but she feels like she keeps on piling things for Peter to take care of on top of each other, so it’s the least she could offer in return.

“You don’t need to apologize,” he insists. “I get it. I shouldn’t have pushed you.” He breathes and her head follows the rise and fall of his shoulders. “I’ve just… I don’t know how to help, and I really want to be able to.”

The sentiment of his words washes over MJ and her headache feels less intense. “You don’t need to feel so responsible for me, Peter.”

“But I _do,”_ he argues. “I left you at the party. I–”

“Stop,” MJ says, a bit of a tremble returning to her voice. She keeps herself from crying this time. “It’s no use blaming yourself for something you had no idea could have happened.”

They sit with these words for a few minutes, thinking. MJ can hear the gears in Peter’s brain turning. She wonders if he ever _stops_ thinking about his faults that aren’t really his faults. It’s probably part of being a small-time superhero. 

The sound of the front door opening breaks the peaceful silence. She feels Peter’s head turn to look at the new arrival. “Hey, May,” he calls. 

“Hey, guys,” she says.

Then Peter whispers, “I’m gonna get up, okay?” MJ nods and lifts her head to let him move. She watches him hop up off the couch and walk to his aunt, who’s meeting him halfway and throwing her welcoming arms around him in a hug. MJ watches silently from the couch.

Then May’s eyes land on her and she instantly feels small under them. There’s something powerful, motherly in her gaze. “You doing okay, MJ?”

She doesn’t know how to answer. Her mouth falls open and it stays like that for a moment too long, so Peter fills the gap: “She’s just, uh, nursing a hangover. You know how it is.”

Silently, she thanks the gods for his quickness. May makes a sympathetic noise and strides up to the couch, gently placing a hand on the back of MJ’s head, running it through her curls. She leans into May’s touch, closing her eyes as she coos, “Oh, sweetie. I hope you feel better soon.”

These Parkers, huh. They’re really something. Making MJ feel like part of their little family. 

She loves it.

The rest of the morning feels calm, slow, everything she feels like she needs in order to recover fully from her hangover and at least infinitesimally from the other thing that happened last night. She’s unable to even think _the_ word. It makes what happened true, real.

Peter makes everyone eggs, and they’re actually not terrible. They all eat around the coffee table because MJ still doesn’t want to get up from the couch, and Peter asks May how her shift was, and May asks how the party went, and Peter kind of dodges the question, and May notices and squints a little, but she doesn’t press.

After that, when the dishes are put away, they all kind of settle into their weekend rhythm, hanging out around the house, doing whatever. MJ makes a trip to the bathroom and she doesn’t look quite as awful as she did in the mirror as when she woke up in the middle of last night and made a short visit. 

She realizes that soon it’s going to reach that point in the day when she’s overstayed her welcome, but the thought of being alone scares her. Sure, her mother will be home, but she’s always busy working. Hardly a spare moment to love her daughter.

Nevertheless, when she leaves the bathroom she goes to the door to look for her shoes. May sees her from the hallway and asks, “You’re leaving so soon?”

MJ can’t help it; she smiles a little bit. “Yeah, I should be going.”

May’s voice gets closer as MJ starts to put on her other shoe. “Come back soon,” she urges. MJ lifts her head to look at the woman, who’s smiling brilliantly. 

MJ stands up and takes a small stride to hug May, who hums in surprise but is quick to reciprocate. “I will,” she says, her arms wrapped tightly around May’s waist.

When they separate, May turns and shouts, “Peter, MJ’s leaving!” 

MJ’s ears ring for a moment. Okay, so maybe the hangover isn’t completely gone. But then she hears Peter’s footsteps and he jogs out from the hallway, with a caring smile on his face as he stops just in front of her, his hand landing on her arm that’s at her side.

“You gonna be okay?” Peter asks, and MJ is quick to nod, the gesture feeling a bit too dismissive. “Okay,” he says. Then he goes up on his tiptoes to kiss her on the cheek. A bit of blood rushes to her face as she feels May’s eyes on her, but Peter’s smile remains. 

“Bye, guys,” she says, her eyes flitting between the two Parkers, who look sad to see her go. It’s a bit much to deal with, so she quickly turns on her heel and pulls the door open, tenderly closing it behind her.

Alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hope this was a good follow up.   
> (also if anyone has seen pulp fiction did you notice the "pretty fuckin far from okay" part which i just realized is a bit on the nose because it's a line right after THAT scene where marsellus wallace... you know.... so uhhh there's that)  
> thank you for reading! next chapter coming soon.

**Author's Note:**

> i hope you guys liked this first chapter. it feels weird to say that because of the nature of this story but i have no idea how else to communicate it. but if you did, please let me know with a kudos or a comment expressing your opinion! until the next chapter!


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